And The Walls Kept Tumbling Down In The City That We Love
by Distilled Happiness
Summary: He had never been more relieved to see her than in that moment. Not even watching her clinging to the edge of life in ICU matched the comfort that her presence gave him as he saw her standing somewhat uncertainly on the other side of the nurses' station in her new coat and with her daughter fast asleep on her shoulder. Like some fucking saviour.
1. Chapter 1

**And The Walls Kept Tumbling Down In The City That We Loved**

* * *

His neck sore from where Hanssen's hand had been clenched around it, Fletch stormed off down the corridor, but before he got more than a few steps he found himself spinning on his heel and looking the CEO dead in the eye. He wasn't afraid of Mr Henrik Hanssen. In fact he didn't think he was afraid of anyone anymore. Not after everything that had happened. He was too angry and too frustrated and too damn fed up with it all. His spine was suddenly forged from titanium as he paced toward the man who'd just assaulted him.

"You know what really gets me?" he asked. "That you never even came to see her!" It wasn't anger in Fletch's voice, it was probably something closer to weary frustration because what was the point in being angry? What did anger solve anyway? All it did was provide a brief sense of relief and satisfaction before the world resumed its normal unfair order.

Hanssen just stood there.

"Who?"

"Jac!"

Her name rang in the age between them. There was definite anger in Fletch's voice that time; anger on her behalf, because Jac had been the one person everyone had just assumed was okay when she really, clearly, wasn't. Jac was the person who hadn't been okay even before the shit storm descended when Fredrik roamed the corridors all trigger happy. And Hanssen knew that. He'd stood and watched her fall apart when she was in theatre with Gaskell, but unlike Sacha, he hadn't come looking for her afterwards. Fletch had watched Sacha peek his head through the office door, had met the surgeon's concerned gaze while he held Jac tightly as she sobbed against his chest; when Sacha had tilted his head to ask if they needed him, Fletch had given a quick shake of the head that had Sacha nodding in understanding as he left them to it.

"You never – not even once – you _never_ came to see her!"

The anger that had drained from Hanssen when he'd let Fletch go surged in one final wave. He practically spat his next words at Fletch, lashing out much as a wounded animal. "And you think if I had, she'd still be here do you!"

"I think if you had, she'd have put you straight." Hanssen practically flinched from the finger Fletch had jabbed into his chest. "And I think that's why you stayed away. Because you're a coward."

And then he was gone. Didn't give Hanssen time to respond as he marched off down the corridor and away from the man whose son had caused so much death and disruption to the place where he had once seen so much joy and hope. Fletch found himself on the ward with Becky and Ken as they were deep in the Jacky Nay-Nay Fan Club discussions that had been grating on his every nerve all night. He hated it. It wasn't right. And it was _Jac_. Not Jacky, not Jacs, not some other variation thereof – not even Jacqueline: _Jac_. Just Jac. Short, sharp, and to the point. Fletch was ready to hit the next person who dared get it wrong; was ready also to hit the next person who tried to talk to him as if they had a fucking clue what he was dealing with.

Slumping against the doorframe and staring at Petrenko, who was sat calm and collected in the nurses' station, Fletch felt himself drowning in despair. Nothing was making sense anymore. Nothing was going right. He couldn't see past the bombshells and the demands and his raging anger at the injustice of the entire situation. He needed someone to blame. Needed to point a finger and yell and scream and hold someone responsible for it all. There was little satisfaction in holding a dead man accountable for his actions; there was no justice or closure that could be given. Just a great gaping wound that refused to be sutured together.

And a man who was so very clearly broken with guilt and who, truthfully, had no reason to hold himself responsible for the actions of his son. It wasn't Hanssen's fault, but it was easier to pretend that it was because that way the illusion of control and order that had been so carelessly shattered was maintained. None of this was his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault but the person who'd shot three colleagues and left a stench of terror and uncertainty behind that still permeated the building nearly four months later.

Fletch did think, however, that it was the wrong moment for Hanssen to return. For both the hospital and for the man. He did think that it was the wrong moment for super rare and cutting edge procedures to take place. He did think that surging forwards without looking back, that _transparency,_ and _from the top down,_ and demands for protocols written in a single night to change the way the hospital operated was unfair and unnecessary pressure. Fletch did think Hanssen had jumped in head first without realising his domain had turned from a pleasant swimming pool into a raging ocean.

The hospital had changed; the people in it had changed too. They'd had to. Had no choice but to change and adapt in such a short space of time. They were coping with the shit as best they could. But then Jac had left and Hanssen had come back, and Fletch couldn't help but link the two events to this overwhelming sense of abject uncertainty and loss.

It wasn't that he begrudged Jac her well needed break – or Hanssen his inevitable return, it was the timing of it all. So sudden and with no time to adjust or prepare or even get his head around it. Fletch knew the timing of the two events – one leaving, one returning – was purely coincidental, and he reasoned that maybe it was a good thing she had gone before all this business with Hanssen had erupted over her ward. At least Jac had stopped trying to pretend everything was okay when it wasn't; Hanssen would rather trudge on as if nothing was amiss. He doubted Jac would be able to stay away if she knew how badly they were managing when she'd hardly been gone a shift. It was why he refused to ring her earlier; he was determined to prove to himself, and to anyone who asked, that he didn't need Jac.

But he did need Jac and that was the problem. He wanted Jac, and that too was the problem.

Oliver wandered past him then, gazing around the centre-point of Darwin in something of a daze, with curiosity and awe plastered on his face. He stumbled steadily over to the nurses' station and ran a hand along the glass counter. The sound of rubber soled shoes squeaking on linoleum floor proceeded Hanssen's arrival as he carefully emerged from behind the corner, carrying himself much as a wounded man who'd escaped the battlefield in body but not spirit would do. Oliver was already looking at him when Fletch turned his gaze back to the nurses' station.

"Where is she?" he asked quietly, a spark glinting behind his eyes.

Fletch glanced at Frieda, and then at Hanssen when he failed to comprehend what Oliver meant. From their equally blank looks, they didn't know either.

"Who?"

Oliver laughed at the question and swept his gaze around Darwin as though he was seeing it with new eyes, and clearly searching for someone in particular. "Oh come on! She's always here!" Then his face fell slightly as some snippet of memory slotted into place in his fractured mind. "She was leaving …"

Fletch's heart clenched uncomfortably.

"I remember," Oliver threw his gaze down the corridor towards the lifts. "I remember … she was going to leave. She was saying goodbye … but she stayed." Fletch met the bright blue frown directed at him. "She was here," he repeated carefully, looking from Fletch to Frieda to Hanssen as if waiting for them to smile and direct him to the office or theatre two. "She was here. I was … I was talking to her. Today. I spoke to her _today_ … so where is she?" The fact it was past the middle of the night probably hadn't occurred to him.

"She's gone mate," Fletch found himself saying with a shrug. "I guess it all got too much."

Oliver shook his head. "No! No. She belongs _here._ This … it's …" he groaned loudly and shook his head, pounding the desk in frustration. "She can't leave!"

"Annual leave," Frieda assured Oliver, placing a careful hand on his arm. "She'll be back."

"When?" he demanded. "I need to … I need to talk to her. It's important."

Frieda shrugged.

" _When?"_

"Why is it so important that you talk to Jac Naylor?" Hanssen asked cautiously when no one else spoke. Like Fletch, Hanssen's strings had been cut, and he leant heavily against the wall beneath the theatre list as if afraid his legs would give out.

Oliver shook his head, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. "I just … I remembered what she said to me." He smiled slightly, a hint of his boyish grin that could have girls swooning from fifty paces on his face. "My biggest supporter."

Fletch wasn't too sure about that; all the evidence on the matter pointed to how irritating Jac found her registrar.

"What did she say?" Frieda asked after a moment. At Fletch's glare she shrugged. "What? Like you're not curious?"

Well he was now wasn't he? Because on the day in question, if it was the day he thought it was, Fletch remembered how horrible Jac had been to Oliver. He knew it was her fear and her anxiety and her need to control the uncontrollable that had her take it out on the registrar, and he hoped Oliver had realised that too at the time. Because no matter how horrible she was, Jac never actually, truly, meant it. Not really. The problem lay in the fact that the Oliver before him now wasn't the Oliver that had said goodbye to Jac on that fateful day. She could have cursed him until his teeth fell out and this Oliver, in the effort of putting his mind back together, might have misjudged the meaning of whatever it was she had said. But as Oliver began to speak, reciting words that clearly weren't his own, Fletch realised he needn't have been so worried.

"You have the ability in abundance," he began slowly, gazing once more around the ward, allowing the words Jac had spoken to him to rise to the surface of his mind. "You have integrity and you have determination. But most of all, you have courage." Oliver smiled fondly. "Cuts are killing … bureaucracy reigns … and the truth is that no one's in charge when it matters. And yet, amongst it all you remain constant. It's your duty to stay." Every word was spoken carefully and precisely, and Fletch could feel the echo of Jac in every one of them tugging at his chest. "It's your duty to become the consultant you should be. The future's here … and it needs you."

As poignant and heartfelt as those words were, especially to Oliver – then and now – they felt flat and stale. Empty and hollow and forlorn. A farewell from someone who had found a path forward, only for that path to be violently disrupted, and permeantly altered. How hard must it have been for her to visit Oliver all those times knowing those uplifting words of encouragement she'd given him would never be fulfilled? Fletch couldn't find his voice, and the silence from Hanssen and Petrenko told him they too were at a loss. Far from the inspiring speech Oliver remembered it as, he seemed to have recognised that there was something profoundly absent. Lacking.

He frowned heavily. "She taught me everything … and she just … _left?"_

"Yeah."

"Just like that?" A flicker of irritation squirmed in his belly, but he smothered it quickly because Oliver was trying his best and so very clearly needed something from Jac in this moment. But Jac was nowhere to be found.

"Just like that."

"But … she can't!"

But she had.

It crept in like a storm cloud that had no end; gloom and hopelessness settled over the ward and slunk through every corridor, every doorway, every window. It was as if they were clinging to a lift raft that was drifting in an everlasting sea that stretched beyond horizon; a life raft with a slow puncture. Any semblance of control and truth and purpose shattered. It all vanished in an instant leaving Fletch standing on the ward unable to see past the list of the dead. Unable to see past those who lives could not, and would not, be made better.

To his right, Hanssen slumped to the ground, knees finally giving way as he landed in a heap with long limbs tangled together. He stared into oblivion as though he could see into the very heart of hell itself. Petrenko was watching Oliver with unwavering attention, no hint or clue on her pale face if she was feeling this hopelessness too, while Oliver stared at Fletch.

What was happening to them?

How could it have come to this?

Why had she just gone without saying anything?

Everything was fine – as fine as it could be; this morning things had been fine. Ric was facing the decision of his life, yes, but Fletch had been quietly confident that sense and reason would win out; and it had, thank god. But there ended the levity. After that it was one thing and then another falling gradually apart as everyone tried to change or couldn't change or wouldn't change. Lies and half-truths. Uncertainty abound in an institution where they had to be certain and they had to be sure.

Fletch didn't know what to do. He couldn't see a way forward. What was the bloody point? The righteous anger he felt earlier rose in a furious panic and helpless defeat. A low buzzing filled his ears, his chest tightened, palms grew clammy, dots floated in front of his eyes … He wanted to scream; needed to let it out. Had to … Fletch buried his face in his hands and bent forward over his knees, unable to supress a loud moan of frustration that had risen straight from his gut.

Then she was there.

Jac.

Just standing there like some god sent angel, bathed in the harsh glow of the industrial lights. A look of confusion and concern on her face as she stood among the wreckage of battered souls and broken spirits. Petrenko's words echoed in Fletch's ears. _We needed her. She knew that._ Gazing at her, worn and tired and with Emma asleep in her arms, Fletch understood then why she'd done it. Why she'd just gone without a word to him at the end of her shift.

Because everyone needed her; in one way or another, everyone had needed her. Needed her to be strong, needed her to lead, to be healing, to be recovering. To be some twisted beacon of hope in all this relentless darkness. They were relying on it. Depending on it. Craved the normalcy and the charade that everything was as it had been before. Everyone had needed something from Jac, even if they hadn't realised it, even if it was just the comfort of knowing she was here, on Darwin, doing what she did est. Saving lives and dishing out the snark whilst elbow deep in a chest cavity and utterly unfazed by it all. Utterly unmoved. Somehow she had seen what the hospital needed, and she'd done her best to provide it.

Everyone had needed her. Even him. Especially him. And now that she was here when she shouldn't be, he realised how selfish he'd been. How selfish they'd all been. And Jac – good, kind, dependable, loyal, determined, stubborn, if slightly prickly, defensive, and emotionally bruised, Jac – had said nothing and just got on with it. For them. For the hospital. For Ric who had been stuck in prison, and for David who'd flat-lined on the table; for Oliver who would never be the same again and for Raf, who had died alone in a lift with no one to help him.

"I leave for five minutes and all hell breaks loose?" she quipped.

He had never been more relieved to see her than in that moment. Not even watching her clinging to the edge of life in ICU matched the comfort that her presence gave him as he saw her standing somewhat uncertainly on the other side of the nurses' station in her new coat and with her daughter fast asleep on her shoulder. Like some fucking saviour.

Oliver's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Jac!"

"The very same … oh." He had launched himself at her and swept her into a rather suffocating hug. With Emma in her arms, Fletch knew she'd had no hope of avoiding the unwanted display of affection. He felt a flutter of smug delight when he saw how Jac made no move to hug Oliver back. "Okay – that's enough of that."

She rather firmly, but gently, used her free arm to push Oliver away and caught Fletch's eye in the process. She tilted her head toward the office and he nodded once in reply, deciding not to try to decipher whatever it was lurking behind her eyes, or why his heart was thumping in his throat and his belly dancing the Macarena.

He attempted some semblance of authority. "Right. Let's get on with that transfer please, Ms Petrenko." Frieda nodded, watching Jac pass Hanssen without a word on her way to the office. Fletch took a moment to take it all in – eternally glad that the fan club behind him hadn't spotted their idol – before following Jac.

As he rounded the corner he heard Oliver approaching Hanssen. "Why are you crying?"

After a beat, the CEO replied in a muffled voice. "Because I lost my son … and I don't know when."


	2. Chapter 2

**Grey Clouds Roll Over The Hills Bringing Darkness From Above**

* * *

The door to Jac's office was ajar, but he couldn't stop himself from tapping gently on the glass panel to announce his presence before he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Jac had laid Emma down on the sofa. She was sleeping soundly with one small hand clenched tightly round the leg of Sarah the Pig, and one bright yellow sock half way off her foot. Fletch smiled fondly as he looked down at her in her butterfly pyjamas, thinking of Evie and Ella when they were Emma's age.

Jac was busy searching for something, her pristine desk already a picture of chaos as she riffled through draws and shuffled paper; she lifted a pile of filed to uncover her stethoscope and glasses. A low hum of amusement reached Fletch and he caught a small smile grace Jac's lips as she stowed the stethoscope in the top draw of her desk and put the glasses on. He knew she knew he was there, and though there was a million things he wanted and needed to say to her, he was content to perch on the arm of the sofa and watch. Just her presence alone was a balm; a soothing hand against a tormenting burn. An unshakable mountain in the face of a raging winter wind.

He didn't go so far as to say everything started making sense again. It was more like she'd found him wandering helplessly through the desert in the middle of a tornado, and had constructed a shelter for him so he could take respite. Everything raged and pounded and battled on around them, but none of it could penetrate the walls of her office. It was a safe zone. A haven. Just for them.

With a huff of irritation Jac stood up and put her hands on her hips, glaring witheringly at the carnage on her desk much as she glared at the nurses when they asked her to repeat her instructions. A foolish grin plastered over his face while he watched her mind race to come up with a solution to her problem. He could never tire of watching her. Whatever she was looking for must have been important if she was back so soon in the small hours of the morning.

"What you looking for?"

"My –" Jac cut herself off when she looked up at him. He saw her eyes dart to his neck, saw them narrow for a split second before widening in alarm. He groaned internally. "What happened?"

"What happened what?"

"Your neck …" she was already sweeping round her desk and heading toward him; Fletch jumped to his feet, hands going to his neck in a reflexive move. _"What happened?"_

Jac reached for him, but he skipped nimbly out of her way, backing into the middle of the office. "Nothing," he assured her with an overly cheery smile, knowing she wouldn't believe him.

"Fletch –"

He caught her hands in his, momentarily distracted by how close they'd suddenly become, and looked at her. If he had been unsure whether or not Jac felt anything for him, the concern boarding on fear he saw behind her eyes would have been all the convincing he needed. As it was Fletch wasn't blind and wasn't stupid, and had some degree of perspective skills when it came to reading between the lines; he knew Jac, and he had known she cared about him for some time. What hadn't been clear until now was if she had acknowledge that fact herself or not. "Nothing – it's fine. I'm fine. I promise."

She pulled her hands free from his to reach up and touch his neck. He flinched slightly as her cool fingers brushed against the subtle soreness beneath his jaw. Her lips twitched in apology. "What happened?" Jac demanded again in a softer voice as she tilted his head gently from side to side; Fletch didn't feel like going into it and instead let his focus settle on the fact he didn't recall consciously putting his hands on her narrow waist. Jac finished her examination and she must have been satisfied there was no lasting damage or she'd have already had his arse sat on a bed while an x-ray was ordered and explanations dragged out.

But she made no move to step away, and in some synchronised move that baffled him but also made him weirdly pleased, he slid his arms around her back and she wrapped hers around his shoulders just as they'd done hours ago outside theatre one. She sighed, all tension leaving her warm body pressed against his. He tightened his grip on her, desperate to hold her as close as he could because with her here in his arms nothing else seemed to matter. The fog and clouds cleared to show there was still a blue sky out there somewhere. He couldn't help but smile into the join where her shoulder met her neck; earlier he'd been able to press his lips against the pale skin there.

She smelled like lavender shampoo and clinical soap.

Almost as soon as they'd gone in for the hug, Hanssen chose to clear his throat stiffly from where he stood in the open door, announcing his presence and ruin their moment. Fletch lifted his gaze over Jac's shoulder to glare unwelcomingly at the CEO and wondered how much he'd heard. He had to smother the contempt that rose in him; Hanssen hadn't spoken to Jac in months but he decided _now_ was a perfect time to rectify that issue? The fact that Jac didn't jump a mile away from him at the sound of the polite cough sent Fletch's belly doing cartwheels in his chest again and was why he didn't tell the intruder to fuck right off. Or maybe it was her right hand resting lightly over his chest. He held Hanssen's gaze and let his arms fall from around Jac as she slowly stepped away and turned to the figure looming in the doorway of her office.

The three of them stood awkwardly for a few moments and Fletch was struck with the urge to place himself between Jac and Hanssen, as if to protect her from the father of the man who'd shot her. But that was ridiculous, and she would not appreciate the primal possessive urge he had to protect her, even if it came from a place of genuine affection. He knew perfectly well she could take on anyone she wanted, but the need to keep her safe and provide for her that basic sense of security and comfort he knew she'd never had was overwhelming.

His words earlier to Hanssen must have had some effect. Why else would he be standing there like some forlorn ghost, illuminated from behind by the harsh lights of the ward? In the weeks after the shooting Hanssen had taken his pastoral duty as CEO to extremes, making personally sure that everyone affected was cared for. Had made a point to inform those he encountered about the counselling being offered by HR, and then to ask opinions on its usefulness. He had taken the time to speak to Essie and Roxanna about their losses, had visited Oliver in his hospital bed, and assured Fletch's own concerns for security. But not Jac. Never Jac.

A need to know why almost had Fletch yelling at Hanssen once again, but this wasn't about him, and any subsequent shouting would wake up Emma.

After what seemed like an age Jac – of course it was Jac – broke the strained silence. He expected some witty cynicism about the length of time since their last conversation, or perhaps a snarky dig at his abandonment of the Ivory Tower, but Jac simply asked in the voice of one who just wanted to go to bed: "What do you want?"

"I …" Hanssen cleared his throat, the lack of anything other than weariness from Jac had probably thrown him off kilter. He stood with his hands clenched into fists at his side as he stood stock straight but somewhat stooped over Jac. "I …" he sighed heavily and closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face as he took a moment to gather his thoughts, or to prepare himself for a conversation he should have had back in December.

Jac glanced over her shoulder at Fletch. He met her gaze with a gentle smile and stepped up to her side, placing his hand on the small of her back in support. A simple gesture to let her know that she wasn't alone. She hadn't asked for it, hadn't indicated that she needed it, but that didn't mean he couldn't give his support to her anyway. Didn't mean he couldn't let her know he was there for her. Jac swallowed and frowned briefly before winning – or losing – whatever internal battle had swiftly raged in her mind the instant he'd touched her. He felt her body relax against his hand with a gentle sigh and Fletch smiled again.

They watched Hanssen's mouth open, his body tense and straighten in preparation for speech, only for him to lose his nerve and change his mind. Whatever he was mentally preparing, Fletch hoped the argument that would follow it didn't leak onto the ward or disturb Emma. That Jac kept darting her eyes between Hanssen, her daughter, and the open door told Fletch she was thinking along the same lines.

"I …" Hanssen stuttered for a third time. "I want to apologise," he blurted abruptly.

Jac recoiled into Fletch.

"For what happened," Hanssen clarified, speaking to the filing cabinet between Jac's desk and the spare one. "I want to apologise for what happened to you because of my son and I –"

"Your son shot me Henrik."

Like a switch that had been flipped the fight was there. Though Fletch had thought Hanssen would make it more than half a sentence before she interrupted; laying into the CEO every thought and frustration she'd felt at his absence. Quite frankly in his opinion, Jac deserved the right to shout at Hanssen. To curse him and shake her fist and use him as a metaphorical punching bag in order to work through everything she'd been bottling up.

Even still, he hadn't thought she'd start so uncompromisingly blunt.

"Your son shot me and left me to die in the basement."

It hung there, that giant unchangeable thing.

"And that is _not your fault."_

"Isn't it?" Hanssen questioned frantically. "He was _my_ son! My responsibility!"

"And the choice to act his he did was his alone," Jac stressed. "No one else. He is the one we get to blame because _he_ is the one who chose to pull the trigger. He made that choice all by himself. No one made him do it."

She fell silent, the brief flash of fight ebbing away as she ran a hand through her tangled hair and glanced at Emma, who was sleeping peacefully on the old sofa; Fletch wondered what the four-year-old was dreaming about. The softness in Jac's face when she gazed at her daughter always made him feel like he was intruding on something very private and very, very special. As if she heard his thoughts, Jac turned her head slightly to look at him with that softness still very much present and he wondered at it, because by all rights she should be angry. Shouldn't she? He certainly was. She should need to blame someone, and the easiest person to blame for it all was right in front of them.

"Yes," Hanssen was saying desperately, "yes but it was _my_ fault that – he want … I didn't … I _drove_ him to it. I failed to –"

"He knew who I was."

Hanssen's shoulders drooped helplessly. "What … what do you mean?"

"I don't mean from the hospital," Jac was looking at Emma again, leaning heavily into Fletch, speaking in a steady tone. "He knew I went to Sweden that time to find you."

She had been carrying this with her since December, maintain her silence and saying nothing of what had happened to anyone. _I was shot_ , she had always said, _what more is there to say?_ Maybe this was why. Maybe she'd not told anyone because she'd needed that person to be Hanssen … needed it to be him because he would understand in a way no one else could. And from the way he closed his eyes, and from the way his face fell, Hanssen did understand all too perfectly.

Fletch didn't. What did it matter that Jac had gone to Sweden to find Hanssen some years ago?

"He knew I put the wheels in motion for you to connect the dots. Or have them connected. He said that if I had never gone to find you in the first place, then he would never have known he was your son." At some point unnoticed Jac had put her hands into the pockets of her coat and Fletch suspected they were clenching and unclenching furiously in her discomfort. He wanted to wrap her back up in his arms, wanted to whisper into her ear that it was alright, that he would keep her safe, but he knew that would only have her shrugging forcefully out of his touch and retreating away from him altogether. He had already made her run for the hills once today.

Hanssen was hanging on to every word Jac spoke. "He told me that … he said that what would happen next was on me …" Jac's voice caught in her throat. "Right before he shot me, he told me it was all my fault."

How could she have carried that with her for so long?

Why had she felt that she had to?

A torrent of a million thoughts raced through Fletch's mind as he watched, almost in slow motion, Hanssen shake his head and open his mouth to protest.

"You are the last person to blame for what happened!"

But the words, ringing loudly in the small office and jolting Emma out of her sleep, hadn't come from Henrik Hanssen. Fletch had blurted them before the other man had time to comprehend her statement. "Jac …" he reached for her but she had already moved toward Emma. "It's not your fault … whatever he said to you … it was _bullshit_ and you know it."

Jac sat down on the edge of the sofa, gathering her groggy daughter in her arms while guilt plagued Fletch for waking the child. He knew from extensive experience how difficult four-year-olds could be when it came to bed time and suspected Emma was no exception. But the gratitude in Jac's eyes when she lifted her gaze over Emma's head to meet his eased that guilt; he smiled ruefully, hoping she knew that he'd have told her just as much just as ardently months ago if only she had said something.

Emma's bright eyes peered up at him from the safety of her mother's lap, and Fletch winked at her, causing the sleepy girl to grin and duck her head into Jac's chest. Jac kissed the top of Emma's head as she absently rocked her child back and forth. Feeling a bit foolish for standing in the middle of the office with nothing to do, Fletch sat himself down on one of the chairs by Jac's desk. Hanssen continued to linger awkwardly by the open door.

"Mr Fletcher is quite correct," he said after a moment. "You are not to blame –"

"Did I say I blamed myself?" Jac snapped. "It's not your fault, it's not my fault – it's not anyone's fault but his. And no one here should blame you." She was looking at Fletch as she finished. He supposed he hadn't exactly been keeping it quiet that he held Hanssen responsible for all the shit they'd been dished lately.

She stared at Fletch unblinkingly until he squirmed, sighing heavily and letting his head drop back against the wall. "No … no one blames you, not really," he looked at Hanssen, and could see how very lost the other man was; hopelessness and despair had aged him in a way time couldn't. It was easier to blame him because he was there, someone to shout at and be angry at. Someone to point a finger to. He knew it wasn't Hanssen's fault. Yet that didn't mean he was ready for the man to stride back into the building with his airs and graces, expecting everyone to bend the knee and do his bidding.

Fletch chose his words carefully, that blinding rage that had sent strength to his backbone and enabled him to confront his boss earlier was replaced with a measure of common sense. After all, nothing was ever solved by shouting angrily at one another. "But you can't expect us to pretend nothing has changed because … Everything changed that day and – and maybe we don't need you to be Mr CEO anymore. Maybe we just … maybe we just need you to be one of us. Human and scared and broken and just … lost. Like us. Because you are, even if you try to pretend you're not."

It occurred to him then that it was significantly lighter in the office than it had been half an hour ago. The sun's morning rays were seeping slowly through the window, causing a red glow to bathe the room and settle over them all. Fletch glanced over to Jac and saw that Emma was wide awake on her lap, staring unblinkingly at the sunrise through the window behind her mummy's desk. It came as no surprise to him that Emma Naylor was an early riser.

The morning light eradicated that haunted look in Hanssen's face. He was watching Jac and Emma with a wistful expression, Fletch could only guess what was going through his mind. Perhaps he was thinking of the child his son had once been, and wondering how such innocence could grow into such cruelty … Jac rested a cheek on the top of her daughter's head as she stared unseeingly at who knew what; Emma squirmed under the scrutiny of Hanssen's contemplation, and then launched Sarah the Pig at him. A child's attempt to diffuse a situation she felt uncomfortable in, and Fletch couldn't help but laugh as Jac quietly admonished her daughter and Hanssen bent to retrieve the soft toy.

A measure of peace settled over them as the day broke to chase away the dreadful night. Handing the toy back, Hanssen met Jac's gaze. Some understanding passed between them and when Hanssen departed with a nod, he walked as one who had had the weight of the world suddenly lifted from his shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

**But If You Close Your Eyes Does It Almost Feel Like Nothing Changed At All?**

* * *

Fletch continued to watch Jac. "You look exhausted," he told her quietly when she turned to him.

Jac rubbed the back of her neck as Emma climbed off her lap with her phone in her little hands. She seized hold of Jac's thumb and squashed it against the screen until the device it light up and buzzed loudly. "Well it wasn't quite the stress-free evening that I had anticipated when I drove home."

"Seems the only thing that went right today – or yesterday I suppose – is Ric getting off."

"He got off?"

"Acquitted, yeah."

"Good. That's good," Jac trailed off and watched her daughter. Emma lifted her eyes from Jac's phone to poke out her tongue, which had Jac narrowing her eyes in response. Emma grinned and threw Sarah the Pig at her.

"What happened?" Fletch asked before he could stop himself. "When you got home? Sorry," he added when she didn't immediately respond. "None of my business."

"It's fine." Placing Sarah the Pig on the arm of the sofa, Jac got to her feet and crossed to her desk in order to resume her search for whatever it was that had brought her back so soon. "I ended up spending half the night arguing with Jonny … I swear if he thinks –" she cut herself off and braced her hands on the desk. "Whatever. He's an idiot."

"You're not staying," Fletch realised suddenly, a sharp pang searing through his chest.

"No …" Jac had become a picture of stillness, half bent over the open draw she had been rummaging through; Fletch wondered hopefully if she would offer up anything more, but she let out a shaky breath and resumed her search. He supposed it was rather foolish of him to believe that a single argument with Jonny within hours of her leaving was enough to have her give up on the idea of a break altogether. He also knew that if Jac didn't go now, then sooner or later she'd run herself right into the ground and risk irreparable damage that could force her forever away from surgery. Three draws later Jac straightened up suddenly in triumph, a passport clenched tightly in her left hand and another searing twinge fired across his chest.

He leapt to his feet as she rounded her desk, stepping in front of her. "Do I at least get a goodbye this time?"

She either refused to, or couldn't, meet his eye as he looked down at her. "I don't know," she told him in the same voice she had used when they were outside theatre hours ago. "Are you going to tell me we need to talk if I do?"

Fletch ran his hands up her arms and onto her shoulders, a thumb stroking her collar bone of its own accord as he encouraged her to look at him. "We do need to talk," she turned away, staring at the spare desk, and he sighed. "But I get it now that maybe you're not ready."

Needing to talk and being ready to talk were two different things. The last thing he wanted to do was push her into something she wasn't ready for. She deserved this break, even if she didn't really want it, and he wasn't going to try and convince her to stay even though he struggled to see how he would cope without her. But that was the point wasn't it? Everyone had needed her and she had let that distract herself from her own needs, using it as an excuse to keep driving forward when she should have been resting and recovering.

"I …" Jac looked up at him with a rare unguarded expression and he saw the whirl of confusion and uncertainty behind her eyes.

"It's okay," he told her. "I'm not gonna try pushing that conversation on you. You know where I'll be when you are ready." But Jac was shaking her head.

"I can't ask you to do that."

"Do what?"

She frowned and shrugged slightly, not meeting his eye. "To wait … for me."

Fletch grinned, he couldn't help it, and pulled her in for another hug before she could back away – not that she had anywhere she could run to in the office. He felt her hands settle on his waist as he kissed the top of her head. "Thing is Jac Naylor, I think you're worth waiting for."

"What if I'm not?"

Infuriating woman. It unnerved him that she was so unsure of herself like this when she was so confident and certain during theatre. He wished he knew what had caused this doubt in her. Wished he knew why she felt safer pushing people away rather than letting them in. She'd been hurt and was scared of being hurt again, but it was more than just that. Fletch held her at arms' length as he voiced his thoughts on the matter. "How could you not be? There is more to you than what you like people to think. I've seen that since day one. For some reason you let me see that right from the start. So how could you not be worth it?"

"What if it turns out that I can't do this?"

"Would you rather not try at all?"

He wasn't sure if she was going to reply or not, saw a world of indecision and hesitation and confusion in her eyes, but the sound of something expensive clattering to the hard floor, followed by an unremorseful "whoops" gave Jac the out she needed. Emma Naylor had inherited her mother's knack for timing.

"Going anywhere nice?" Fletch asked, desperate to keep conversation flowing as he glanced at the passport clutched in her hand. Not that he expected her to tell him anything since she owed him nothing, even if he had just promised – like an idiot – to wait for her, however long that took.

Jac sat down on the sofa to wrestled Emma back into the yellow sock that had fallen off without anyone noticing. "I let Mo talk me into going away with her. She's been nagging me for weeks about it ever since Jonny bailed on her, and after Campbell pushed leave on me and then Jonny announced that he's moving up to Scotland …"

"You figured what's to lose?" he didn't say anything about Jonny moving away, all too aware how much value Jac placed in Emma having a father, even if she'd not said as much out loud.

"I'll admit it was the promise she'll pay for first-class seats on the flight that swung it."

Fletch laughed freely, but he couldn't help voice his concern for her wellbeing. "You'll take it easy though?"

Amusement glinted in Jac's eyes. "Petrenko been talking has she? Must say I thought she'd hold out longer than five minutes after I left."

"Yeah – and Becky … and even Ken knew you were in pain." But she hadn't told him about it. Not even once.

"Ken? What's he doing back here?"

"Don't change the subject." Frustration laced with a hint of resentment over the fact she could just withhold information easily as she did began gnawing at his gut again; she was so … _exasperating_. A little voice in the back of his brain pointed out that he wasn't exactly an open-book either; all those times she'd asked if he was okay – in her roundabout manner of doing so – and he would smile and shrug and tell he was doing his best when in truth there was a pit of raging anger smouldering below his gut. He hadn't fooled her though, not really, and he wondered if she'd really fooled him into believing she was fine, or if he had just wanted to hear it and so accepted her assurances when she gave them.

Jac groaned, picking up her phone only for Emma to pluck her passport out of her hand and open it to inspect the contents. "We've been through this Fletcher."

"Jac!"

She gave him a little _what?_ look; hands held open, a tiny shrug of the shoulders and eyes rolling in their sockets as if he was the exasperating one, not her. Jac sighed heavily through her nose. "I've rung the number Becky Colter gave me and they can't fit me in until the week after next." She shrugged, trading Sarah the Pig for her passport. "It's a long weekend in Spain and I'll be with a highly skilled medical professional who I've worked with for five years. What more do you want?"

What more could he ask from her? She was trying – that was all that counted in the end. He would not fault her for trying.

"I just want you to be okay. I _need_ you to be okay. I …" he slumped against the edge of her desk and chuckled ruefully. "I honestly don't know how we're gonna cope without ya." He shrugged and then laid his cards out on the table between them. "I'm gonna be counting the days 'till you get back."

"And I told you," Jac said softly, looking at her hands. "I can't – _I won't_ – ask you to wait for me."

"You're not asking me to," he promised. "I want to." When she continued to look unsure Fletch decided to ask her a different question, one that would force her hand. Because it was one thing to know she cared for him, but that didn't mean she was willing to admit there was anything more than comfortable friendship between them. He hadn't been aware there was more to what lay between them than friendship until he'd been telling her thought she was someone worth waiting for. "Unless _you_ don't want me to?"

The alarm that flickered across her face was all the assurance he needed; he said nothing as Jac folded rather than revealed her hand – the game was all but up anyway, though he felt there was no need to tell her that. No need either to mention that he had figured out shortly after leaving her in the store cupboard that she had been the one who told Becky he was seeing someone. "I don't know what I want," she shrugged dismissively.

"I think you do," he countered. "I think you're just scared to want it."

Jac got to her feet, not looking at him as she pocketed her phone and her passport, ad brushed invisible dust off her jacket. "I need to go. Mo expects us in London by three or else she'll book seats in coach."

"Of course."

Jac stared down at Emma, who was staring up at her with wide eyes and an innocent expression that set Fletch on edge. "Come on face-ache," she smiled, "You hungry?" Emma nodded, holding out her hands to Jac. "Me too."

When Jac made to bend down and pick Emma up, Fletch wasn't sure if he imagined the shadow of pain flicker across her face or not. He did not, however, miss Jac's attempt to smother a sharp wince a moment later. "I'll carry her to the car," he said quickly, already moving towards Emma and the couch, "your back must be killing you if you've been up all night."

He didn't give her the chance to protest, manoeuvring her gently out the way with both hands on her waist before scooping up her daughter; that she had let him tickled his cartwheeling belly. Emma wrapped a little arm around his neck while clutching Sarah the Pig tightly to her chest; Fletch adjusted his arms a few times to settle Emma's weight evenly and she giggled every time he did so while Jac half-heartedly attempted to tidy the mess that had become her desk.

"I'll do it later," he told her, "if you've got to get going."

"You sure?"

"Yeah – it's just paperwork, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'll sort it before I go home," Fletch promised. "Make sure it goes where it needs to go." Jac looked at him for a long moment before nodding slowly.

"Okay."

After making sure she had everything, Jac led the way out of her office and Fletch, half a step behind, noticed the subtle limp as she walked and the way she gingerly reached out to steady herself on the wall as they passed. Four weeks off would do her the world of good; he just hoped the hospital would still be standing when she got back.

Because she would come back. She had to. He didn't think she'd abandon ship now; if she was going to leave she would have left after the shooting. The perfect out. And while he couldn't fathom a reason to fully explain why she had stayed, he accepted the fact that she had. Which, in the end, was all that mattered wasn't it? Actions spoke louder than words after all, and if there was one thing he was certain about Jac, it was that she would rather act than stand around talking. She would rather suffer through the pain, than talk about it.

Fletch let Emma hit the button to call the lift. Behind them the ward began to slowly wake up as nurses thought about preparing for the handover when the day-staff took over, and checked up on patients before rounds. He saw the looming figure of Hanssen emerge from the Darwin staff-room and pace through the ward towards the theatres. Fletch made a note to pop into theatre one and see how they were all doing in there when he came back up.

He supposed he ought to try and cut Hanssen some slack, because he too was trying to get through all this just as they were. In his own way, in his own time. There wasn't a rule book, no handy guide to explain what to do next in a situation such as theirs; only the bitter passage of time, and the desperation with which any shred of hope was clung to. All they could do was their best. Maybe there was no going back, only moving forward. He didn't know, he didn't have the answers. He wasn't sure anyone else had any either.

It would be hard to continue taking orders from the man who had spawned such evil, Fletch mused, but he would stomach it – the hospital would stomach it – if that was where Hanssen decided he was needed most. But the anonymity of life as a surgeon would probably suit him better; focus on individual patients and spending hours shut away in theatre where the rest of the world didn't matter. Maybe slipping into the background for a little while would help them all. Hanssen was one of them after all, and they looked after their own, but it was a little hard to look after someone when they were the all-powerful man behind the curtain.


	4. Chapter 4

**And If You Close Your Eyes Does It Almost Feel Like You've Been Here Before?**

* * *

They didn't talk much in the lift down to the ground floor; which is to say Jac and Fletch didn't talk while Emma chatted spiritedly about what she wanted for breakfast. Occasionally she would hit Fletch on the head with Sarah the Pig when he failed to answer a question because he was too busy sneaking side glances at Jac. She was staring resolutely at the corner of the lift as if it held all the answers to the world's greatest problems and mysteries.

Jac was brought out of her reverie by the sound of automated voice announcing the ground floor. She flashed a tired smile up at him, and Fletch wondered how she was going to manage to drive safely all the way to London later. Perhaps he could convince her to go by train … it'd be an adventure for Emma and he wouldn't have to worry about her falling asleep at the wheel on the motorway.

But then again, maybe he was just projecting his own exhaustion onto her – the grit in his eyes that begged on its knees for sleep probably dared not make itself present in Jac's emerald gaze. And now he was comparing her eye colour to gem stones … sleep deprivation did funny things to the brain.

It took a moment to realise they had been way-laid by Oliver as they crossed the lobby. Uninterested in the conversation her mother was having, Emma smacked Fletch over the head with Sarah the Pig and he pulled a suitably exaggerated face to make her giggle. Oliver was chewing off Jac's ear with what sounded like every memory involving her that he ever had.

"… and you never doubted me, did you? I mean – you just pretend that you did so I'd try harder. You pulled pranks to get me to shut up, and insisted you didn't like me despite the fact that you were always there pushing me forward … that hating was all pretend – _is_ all pretend, isn't it? Because that's where I was confused earlier. You're not _just_ all bad … there is good in you too and I … forgot that bit. It went away. When you're kind you do it the wrong way and that's why everyone thinks you're just a virus that eats up people and spits them out again." There was a triumphant look on Oliver's face as he finished. Jac merely blinked.

"I never doubted you," she said after a long moment, perhaps unnerved by Oliver's unwavering stare.

"Then why be so … _unpleasant_ all the time?"

Jac shrugged awkwardly, looking at the ground. She spoke with a frown. "People make me uncomfortable. They can be likeable enough, I've learned, but that doesn't make them trustworthy. All those emotions and schemes and dreams and plans … everyone wants something regardless of the cost, and it's hard to trust people when you've grown up only seeing – only knowing the darkest side of humanity."

Exhaustion, Fletch decided, made Jac honest – not that she ever wasn't, but being bone weary tired made her honest about herself. _But not you. Not yet._ A sidelong glance in her direction revealed rather wild eyes. He swore he heard a small strangled sound coming from her throat; she had realised what she'd said and was now wishing she hadn't said it.

"It's nothing personal, Valentine," Jac backtracked, a cool and disinterested tone to her voice. Fletch wasn't fooled. He'd seen the panic. "I hate people for reasons that don't have anything to do with my crappy excuse of a childhood … mainly, you're all just idiots."

"Minus a few rare exceptions," Fletch countered, catching Sarah the Pig as she made a bid for freedom. Jac met his eye and the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile.

"Minus the odd one or two," she conceded. She turned back to Oliver. "You should go to bed. You look like crap."

"Take a long look in a mirror why don't you."

He had a point. Yet Fletch couldn't help but admire Jac despite the tiredness. Couldn't help but marvel at the way she just didn't care at this point how the world saw her, because usually she wouldn't be caught dead wearing her glasses anywhere but the ward and her office. And the loose, ratty jeans with paint stains and frayed hems he only just noticed she was wearing didn't constitute as clothes he thought Jac would own, let alone wear outside the walls of her home. Then again she could turn up in a bloody bin bag, hair a rat's nest, and with mud all over her face and he would still call her the most beautiful woman in the room. So would half the hospital.

Shaking her head, Jac brushed past her former mentee and made for the exit. Fletch extracted a hand and clasped Oliver's shoulder, juggling Emma and Sarah the Pig in the process; but Oliver had a strange expression on his face, and he called out after Jac in a loud voice that echoed in the strangely empty hospital lobby.

"Other people are easier to fix!"

Jac spun on her heel.

"I asked you why you'd become a doctor and that was your answer. That other people were easier to fix."

A hundred thoughts and feelings must have gone through Jac's mind as she stood stock still staring at Oliver Valentine. A hundred thoughts and feelings were going through Fletch's own mind because if it was true, and it sounded very much like a brutally honest answer Jac would give to such a question – if that was what she believed … his heart was stuttering. From the mute expression on Jac's face Fletch knew that had been caught entirely off-guard; he could almost see her mind whirring to race through a catalogue of memories until she reached the instant Oliver was referencing. Finally she shook her head.

"Wonders will never cease with you Valentine."

"And that's when I kissed you."

Jac darted a fleeting glance at Fletch – or maybe only Emma. "Yes," she agreed quietly, "you did … and your sister deemed it not your finest hour of decision-making."

"Penny …" a wistful expression crossed Oliver's face. "We were going to be the best surgeons the world had ever seen." He smiled at Jac, the sort of smile to hide behind. Regretful and melancholy and the type of smile that never reached the eyes – the kind of smile he always used to associate with Jac.

Jac touched the jittery registrar's arm. "Goodbye Oliver."

Emma chose that moment to throw Sarah the Pig at Jac's head. "Mummy! I'm hungry!"

"I'll let you go," Oliver said carefully, backing away and turning sharply toward the lift. Fletch watched Jac watch Oliver, wrestling with the urge to comment on what he had just discovered, and attempting to smother the irrational jealousy he felt about the discovery.

"Mummy!"

Emma's shout earned them a glare from the security guards by the entrance.

"Alright," Jac sighed, stooping with a poorly concealed wince to retrieve Sarah the Pig, "Let's go get some breakfast then."

"And Fletch?" the little girl asked sweetly.

Fletch wanted to know more about that kiss Jac had once had with Oliver Valentine.

"I've still got work to do darling," he told Emma sincerely, not meeting Jac's eye.

"Oh."

"Maybe next time," Jac said, handing the toy back to the child as they left the building. Fletch's erratic heartbeat skipped a beat or two as she spoke. Had she meant it, or had she just been telling her daughter what she wanted to hear in much the same way he would tell Theo or Ella 'maybe next time' in the hopes they'd forget before 'next time' occurred?

Jac had parked as close to the entrance as she could, and hurried ahead of him as he lagged behind carrying Emma. He swore the child had suddenly gained an extra tonne since he'd first scooped her up from the couch in Jac's office. Was there some conspiracy that meant the longer a child was carried, the heavier it became? Was Emma Naylor trying to make his arms fall off? Up ahead Jac opened the back passenger door, and he sighed in relief to see Emma's car seat ready and waiting. He groaned as he bent over to assume the awkward position necessary for placing a child into the backseat of a car. He heard Jac chuckle lightly from her spot holding the door open.

"You're groaning more than Elliot used to do when he stood up after his morning donut."

His response drained away due to the fact Jac had placed a warm hand on his back as she passed him, rounding the back of the car to open the boot. He interpreted the gesture as a silent thank you for not making her bend over awkwardly to put Emma into the car; that Jac could have made the gesture without thought – that she could be so comfortable around him that she didn't over-think and over-analyse her every move – never occurred to him.

The boot thudded shut and Fletch heard the crunch of footsteps on tarmac as someone approached Jac.

"Hey."

He glanced through the rear window. It was Essie.

"Hey."

"Sacha said you'd gone on leave."

"She may be a surgical genius," Fletch grinned as he finished buckling Emma into her seat, "but even geniuses can forget where they've left their glasses." Essie's face appeared in the window briefly, perhaps wondering who was buckling Jac's child into Jac's car while Jac stood and watched.

"Passport!" Jac called to him. He snorted. After a pause, during which Fletch imagined Essie had given Jac an inquiring look, she elaborated. "Effanga has convinced me and Emma to go to Spain with her and Hector for the weekend. Not quite sure why I've agreed."

"Mo's paying for you to fly first-class," Fletch reminded her.

"Bit of sun never hurt anyone," Essie's tone was dead and dejected, as if she wasn't truly present and had wandered over to Jac without realising it. "And you deserve a break."

"You look like hell."

Fletch straightened up and closed the car door gently, looking between the two women as he joined them at the back of Jac's car. "It's …" Essie sighed, clutching the strap of her handbag tightly. It was like there was something Essie wanted to say, but couldn't. As if she didn't know where, or even how, to begin. Something had occurred, Fletch realised, during Essie's shift.

Jac had come to the same assumption. "What happened?"

"Finally got the coroner's report. From Gaskell's trial patient who died – Fiona."

"Not a good verdict I take it?" Fletch asked delicately.

Essie shook her head. "An infection, contracted during post-op care …"

Fletch met Jac's gaze and saw they had once again drawn the same conclusion.

"That doesn't make it your fault."

The nurse's eyes had grown watery, and she was stuck with her gaze on Raf's memorial. In a great rush she said, "I feel like I'm letting him down!"

"No," Fletch shook his head and wrapped an arm around Essie's shoulders. "You are not letting anybody down. Especially not him. There is no way to assign blame in this situation. No way of being sure so …" he shrugged powerlessly, "everyone in this place needs to stop blaming themselves for things going to shit. We try our damn hardest and that's all we can ever do." He held on to her, eyes on the ugly statue commemorating his best mate, and wondered what the world had come to; Fletch's eyes were drawn like magnets to the silent and still redhead as she looked across the carpark.

As if she had felt the weight of his gaze upon her, Jac stirred and turned toward him. She met his gaze and held it, capturing him with her own until he forgot how to breathe; he watched her throat bob as she swallowed. Jac dropped her gaze to glance at Essie.

"Offer still stands," she ventured uncertainly after a long moment. "If you need to rant … I enjoy complaining about people."

Essie gave a watery chuckle from somewhere around Fletch's chest. He grinned too as Jac's eyes darted back up to his again. He found it fascinating to know that she couldn't help herself from looking back at him almost as soon as she had looked away; like she was afraid to be caught staring, and yet not able to stop.

"I could do with a chat," Essie admitted.

"Well it's a bit early for wine," Jac grimaced as an ambulance pulled up outside the entrance, "but I know a place that does a decent breakfast …" she shrugged and smiled hesitantly.

"I think sleep deprivation has gone to your head," Fletch told her as Essie pulled away.

"Haven't you got a shift to finish?" was Jac's reply.

He rolled his eyes and grinned. "Alright. I can take a hint."

But Jac just laughed. "You really can't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She merely smiled at him infuriatingly before striding over to the driver's door and wrenching it open; a loud chorus of "Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!" reached their ears. Rolling her eyes, Jac stuck her head through the door to address her daughter's demands.

Fletch turned to Essie. "I'd run away now if I were you. No breakfast could be worth the company of two hungry Naylors."

"I heard that!"

"You were meant to darling!"

"Don't _darling_ me!"

Essie shook her head, a glint in her eyes and a knowing smile on her face.

"What?" he demanded.

But whatever she was going to say was cut off when a loud shout from the entrance caught his attention. Fletch glanced over his shoulder to see Sam unloading a patient from the back of the ambulance while Iain waved him over, beckoning for help. Fletch turned back to Essie, but found his gaze had skipped straight over her head to Jac, who was watching him over the roof of the car.

"You don't need me," she pointed out. "Go on. Piss off."

He was three steps across the carpark before he realised he hadn't said goodbye to Essie; he half turned on his heel and gave her a quick wave, which she returned with another knowing smile before answering whatever it was Jac had said over the roof of the car. Jogging over to the entrance, Fletch let his nursing instincts kick in and consume his immediate attention. Name. Age. Complaint. Treatment received. Stable. Unstable. Destination. Handover. Treat. Calm. Inform. Observe. Name. Age. Complaint. Treatment received …

 _Do you want to come away with me?_

She had said it in a great rush, and at the time he'd been too baffled by the question and too busy with work to offer more than the truthful response that he had responsibilities he couldn't abandon. Despite how appealing the prospect of getting out of Holby for a while was. Fletch ground to an abrupt halt, as though he'd just run into a brick wall, and a porter pushing an empty bed collided into the back of him. Fletch jumped out the way, apologising profusely and earning a shake of the head from the porter as he passed.

Idiot. He was such an idiot. In that one simple question she had as good as told him what she wanted from him – and he'd missed it. She was right. He really couldn't take a hint. Prattling on about responsibilities and children and the hospital rather than realising that she had been trying to tell him something in the only way she knew how. He had left her unwilling to play her hand because the last time she'd done so he had walked away completely oblivious to what she was truly saying. No wonder she had run when he'd said they needed to talk.

Fletch passed Hanssen once in a corridor during the final hours of the shift; he said nothing and avoided eye contact with the CEO, willing to let the man go about his business as if he hadn't had his hand around Fletch's throat earlier. But a rush of irrational anger and rage washed over him as Fletch passed Hanssen in the corridor; he clenched his fist to keep it from exploding before ducking into Jac's office to avoid making a scene. He took a steadying breath, hoping that with each exhale, he would expel a little bit more of the anger simmering in him. Was this his life now? Irrational anger whenever he saw the man who wasn't to blame for what had happened? Would it ever go away? It was unfair and unjust and uncalled for.

And he seemed full of it. Of hate and loathing and anger and rage and frustration. Because it wasn't every going to be okay was it? How could it be? Being expected to just go on as if nothing had changed when everything had changed and yet the world was still the same. His kids still had no mother. Raf was dead. Jasmine was dead. Arthur was dead. When did it end? When did the almighty being – if there was one – say enough?

Pacing back and forth his heart resumed its steady rate, his breathing evened out, his hands uncurled from their fists, and his shoulders relaxed from their hunched state. Though she was long gone, he could feel Jac in every inch of the office. It gave him comfort. Like a grounding wire, or a steady anchor, encouraging him to just … let it go … holding on to it wasn't going to solve anything. If he continued holding onto it then every time he looked at Hanssen it would overwhelm him; and that wasn't going to help either of them. Or any of them.

So he would try. Somehow. He would try and let go of his rage … he would try and move on. For Raf, and his kids … for Jac. Fletch sat down gingerly in the seat behind the desk and began the task of tidying it up. _It's not your fault, it's not my fault – it's not anyone's fault_.

It wasn't about guilt and blame. It was about carrying those awful hours with them, unable to let it go while it festered and putrefied from the inside. It was about trying to find a way to make sense of something insensible; a terrible burden that they couldn't put down. It was about people falling apart, people torn apart, and the desperation with which they were trying to put themselves back together in order to find each other again. The need to reach out, but knowing there was nothing to say, yet trying anyway because they were all a bit broken and damaged and they might as well be broken and damaged together.


End file.
